Oboe Shmoboe
by Alya
Summary: Another New Chapter!! These are just random essays about my life as an oboe player. Please reveiw with good comments or bad. I happen to like playing the oboe very much, thank you!^_^
1. Default Chapter

A/N- I don't hate music, its quite the opposite. Its just that music has always been there for me, and I had had a particularly bad day, and gone though it with the mentality of "if I can just get to orchestra, everything will be alright", except it wasn't…  
  
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Silence fell upon the orchestra. I hadn't counted properly. A bold cellist decided to voice his opinion. "It goes a lot faster than that!" The band director glared. Not at him. At me. Of course at me. I hadn't counted. My solo – my Mozart solo – and I hadn't counted.  
  
The director sighed, and held her hands up again. "Start from three after A."  
  
I forced my breathing to calm again, though there was nothing I could do for my face. It felt as if it had been exposed to the fires of hell. Silently I ran over the notes again in my head, then nearly missed the downbeat. Although I soon found it again. That cello had taken it upon himself to count for me. Damn him. Why couldn't he play the clarinet? Or trumpet…we needed a trumpet. Any instrument that would keep his mouth occupied.  
  
We played the passage through, with minimal mistakes until our orchestra director came through the door. Cocking her head to the side, she exclaimed, a big grin on her face "Ah! The Mozart! Good…good…" Ridding herself of loads of music, she walked up and stopped us. Still grinning – she came directly from teaching a grade school strings class, and anything sounded good after that. She wouldn't tolerate the cello talking out of turn. Not during practice at least. And I could count now…just…concentrate…  
  
She started the piece again, indicating for us to begin where we had left off. I had my four measures of rest…easy enough…then – oh God… My solo solo. Two measures of sixteenth notes that were over before I could ever tongue the first note. Oh no…not these...not now. The measures leading up to them pushed me into a false state of security, hopping along happily. I could play this…1 2 3 4, 1 2 3 4. Deep breath…AAAAAHHHH! I only hit half the notes. The orchestra conductor shook her head, but refused to stop. I still had another chance. The measure repeated itself later on, a few steps up. The violins mimicked, flying along the sixteenth notes like hummingbirds to my buzzard. And it repeated. It didn't get better.  
  
"Stop, stop!" The orchestra director waved her hands, and I sunk behind my stand. She knew how to make a person feel horrible. Especially us winds. "Oboe!" That was me…oh god…she sounded so…frustrated. Perhaps I could pretend I was the flute? "Oboe, you have got to get those runs down! It's been a week now. Haven't you practiced?" I have! I have! I screamed inside my head, but I couldn't talk back to her. The notes were so fast…and high...and awkward. You try them, I wanted to say. But didn't. "Here, listen to Sam play it. Do you think you could get it then?" I nodded, feeling the heat spread itself from my face and behind my eyes. I wouldn't cry. No. I wouldn't. Sam picked up her violin and played the two measures simply, as if they were quarter notes. Except they were quarter notes unfortunate enough to have eaten three bottles of hot sauce. There was no way I could play those…ever. I had practiced until I couldn't stand it any longer, just on the two runs. "Can you play them now?" I nodded again. "Work on them tonight" Another nod. "Now, go back to the practice rooms and count yourself into a frenzy" I hated those words. She always said them. This time, though, they were just for me. For me. She turned, and her disappointed voice turned to one that wanted to get on with the practicing "French horn, you and the bass clarinet go back and work on your parts together, alright?" I gathered my case and music. The rest of the class washed over me, faces staring, then looking back to our director. The fires of hell were my face. I ran back to the practice room.  
  
Music on stand…reed straight…deep breath…first note, embouchure, play! A tear fell. I couldn't play. More followed. I turned towards the wall, away from the music, away from anyone who might look through the door of the practice room. I couldn't play. I couldn't play. I can't play. I shouldn't be in this class. It doesn't make sense. Why couldn't I? I couldn't. Music had deserted me. 


	2. It doesn't matter

Music swarmed around the room, quick as a flock of bees – though slightly more melodic. The orchestra played, practiced, and meticulously worked on the pieces. The pieces that would never be performed, would never win contests, would never leave the band room. It didn't matter, did it? At least they got to play. That was all that mattered. The school had put up enough money for an orchestra specialist, yet had failed to give enough for contests or concerts. It didn't really matter. The music was fun. They needed the class…it gave a wonderful break between the standardized testing and finals that every other teacher was so eager to hand out. The notes ran from wall to wall and back again, joyfully chasing each other around in intricate games of tag. Music didn't need to be performed for others, it didn't need to be judged or critisized. It was music. That was all that mattered. 


	3. Chadwick

A/N: Chadwick is my oboe, just in case I didn't state that clearly enough. I'd also like to say that Ive been writing these kind of fast, and Im sorry if people are annoyed my thing keeps jumping to the top – Ive told myself Im going to write something every night, and so far, these have been that^_^ I'd also like to thank those who reveiwed, and encourage more to do so!  
  
  
  
Chadwick stared back up at me, individual pieces lying forlornly in the battered case. I hate you, I thought, then shook my head. I don't hate you. I love you. I just wish you weren't plastic. And that you had all the keys. And that the ones you do have didn't stick. Chadwick glared. I'm beautiful, he said. I had to agree. He was beautiful. I had learned to play with his patient help. I couldn't have otherwise. Truthfully, as much as I longed for a real oboe – a wooden one, one with all the trill keys and a low B flat, one with open tone holes, one that wasn't plastic – I still couldn't imagine ever giving poor Chadwick up. It wasn't his fault. He tried his best. I knew that.  
  
I picked up the different joints, assembling them carefully, twisting each so they fitted together. Chadwick settled back smugly into my hands. He knew I couldn't willingly give him up. He knew that without him, I'd be stuck in some other class, slumped over a book. He knew how much I needed the music. Occasionally, though, he would play tricks on me, refusing to go up to a high D, spacing his keys just exactly in the wrong places during a faster passage. On particularly bad days, he would stick his octave key, so that I could not rise above the first octave, no matter how much cigarette paper I used, or how much I threatened him. Once he even went so far as to drop off the pad of the A flat key. My band director snatched him and commenced to hold a lighter up to his body, attempting to remelt the glue of the pad. Chadwick melted slightly before I was able to pull him back. He never did that again.  
  
Chadwick, however, has the patience to sit with me through every class, a reminder that Algebra will not stretch the whole day through. He refuses to quack, and holds in tune – if he can ever get the reeds to work in his favor. He tries. He can't do it all, but he tries. He's like a young child, yearning to be adult.  
  
I picked out one of the better reeds, and opened the water (spilling it, like always, in the process). Placing the first and second best reeds in it, I sat back in my chair. Chadwick lay against me, content. 


	4. She promised us an orchestra

She promised us an orchestra. She promised. The school cut the class, but she said we would have one anyway. She made us promise to be in it. All of us. She said that the school board were idiots for not seeing that orchestra was an important class. That even if one person wanted to be in it, we should have one. She promised. We were depressed…and she promised. She said that she had taught for fifteen years, and been fired every one of those fifteen years. She said she never gave up, even when fired. We went through the weeks with this diluted mindset.  
  
Yesterday I asked if there were any new ideas about the orchestra next year, and got the reply of "Oh, but the orchestra is going to be just winds!" She had lied to us. We need an orchestra too. I don't want to play in band. I want to play in orchestra. And I want to play in an orchestra that has concerts, and goes to contests. I want to play music written by Mozart, and the distinguished composers. The composers who know what an oboe is. In band, I'm not a part of it. Its always "The Band", and then "oh yeah, that oboe over there, too". In orchestra, the oboe matters. Music is written for it, rather than for the bells, with "oboe" written in the corner. You can hear me over the rest of the instruments. The oboe matters in orchestra. It doesn't in band. I want to play in orchestra. We have to have an orchestra. 


	5. Why does nobody care?

We watched a movie today in orchestra. It was fun, yes, but I really wanted to play. There is so little time left before the orchestra ceases to exist forever. You would think they would share my same sorrow. Yet they are happy when we don't play. I don't understand. Why should they be? I'm not. Every last minute of the music is precious, and should not be thrown away for a few moments of movie. We entered in no contests over the year, and we only had three concerts…the school doesn't know we exist. All sad facts, but they should not keep us from playing. It's the music that should be loved – not the attention. Somehow, though, the attention is more important. It shouldn't be that way. We could have done so much more.  
  
We have four more days of orchestra before the school year ends. Next year its cut- its not important enough to fund. Sports are. Sports always are. Which will last longer? The music will. One wrong fall, and a person can be hurt enough never to play their sport again. Music will last through that. I wish the schools could see. I wish everybody could see. I wish even our orchestra could see. They cant. It seems that nobody can. Nobody cares about the music.  
  
I could take band next year- I probably will. I just would rather not, if I had a choice between it and orchestra. I love orchestra. I live for it. I never had the passion for music when I was in band. Band for oboes is horrible. This year, though, I began to really appreciate music, and how wonderful it can be. And everyone wants to throw that away. 


	6. My Room

There's the church, and then there's The Church. When I say I'm going to church every Wednesday, that I can't be late, and want to be at least thirty minutes early, I get some odd looks. People automatically ask if I'm religious, then look funny for a minute as they try and remember all the anti-religion jokes they might have inadvertently offended me with. That's not why I go to church. I have my lessons there. That church is the most beautiful place on earth. Even the room I have my lesson in, which has puke green wallpaper covered in gigantic gold swirls and flowers is beautiful. When I'm in that room, life stops. I can sit on the puke green windowsill and look over the city, I can practice and nobody can hear, or I can goof around and examine the grand piano that I play with my back to. The golds, greens, browns, and miscellaneous ugly chairs don't matter. What matters is the fact that in each of them lies the remembrance of lessons that have passed. The ones where my reed worked, the ones where it didn't. The ones where I was too tired to concentrate on the notes, and consequently made a fool of myself. Not that I don't make a fool of myself often, its just a bit more dissapointing when I can't play what I'd been working on on the day that matters the most. The acoustics are perfect. It's the only time that I get to play alone in a room that big. My room at home is small, and the pratice rooms at school are even smaller. Nothing more than an ugly colored closet. I go after days of school, and all my pent up energy is released in the music. That doesn't happen as much at home. That room can absorb more. I guess it doesn't really matter to anyone else, but I love that room, and if I ever move, I'm going to miss it. Everything about it is perfect. I've spent so much time in it room, that I've actually gotten angry when others use it. It's my room. Nobody else's. It doesn't seem right that others use that room to talk or sing or teach about God. Its an invasion of my privacy, really. Nobody else sees it like I do. 


	7. Deformed Flute

A/N: I'm sorry this has taken to long to post. I'll try to get them up more frequently in the future, but at the moment, all I have are the school computers, and they won't let you post. Also, I really don't mean to offend anyone in the next essay, and don't mean it to sound as if I am, either.  
  
This is just a representation of the views of different instruments in my band, and I have met many  
  
many people elsewhere that have acted completely different.  
  
______________________________ I'm tired of being thought of as a deformed flute. As the only oboe, you're not part of the band. Flutes  
  
think of you as being a deformed clarinet, and everyone else (including band composers) thinks of you as a  
  
deformed flute. Band directors think of you as a novelty, and will go to the extremes t force you into band.  
  
That's what happened to me this year. When they cut the orchestra, I decided that I was not going to go back  
  
to the band. I lasted for two whole weeks before I couldn't stand the band director's constant nagging and  
  
guilt trips. Now that I'm there, however, the novelty of having an oboe has worn off, and I've been  
  
forgotten. I'm nothing more than bragging rights to her, and to everyone else, I don't exist. On the other  
  
hand, I do get to be the oboe's section leader yet again!  
  
Band for oboe stinks. The music always parallels the flutes'. I don't see why band directors love  
  
us so much. We never actually get to do anything, and you never know what to do, either. When the flutes  
  
are called on to play alone (and my part is the same as theirs), I almost always get into trouble. If I don't  
  
play, I'm yelled at because my part is the same and I should have, yet if I do, I'm yelled at because she told  
  
only the flutes to play, It doesn't make sense. Why can't band directors learn to call on oboes and flutes,  
  
or just flutes? Its really not that hard.  
  
And sectionals. What's the point of me having a sectional all by myself? Plus the same thing happens. If  
  
I go in a practice room alone, I'm told to go with the flutes, and if I go with them, I'm told to go away because  
  
I'm obviously not a flute.  
  
That leads me to band trips. Sections generally stay close together. I'm my own section. Brass and  
  
percussion don't want to talk to me because I'm a woodwind, clarinets won't take me because I play flute  
  
parts, and flutes won't because I look too much like a clarinet (though I'd disagree vehemently with that  
  
point) and saxophones won't take me because I'm not shiny enough. Who am I supposed to go on the  
  
rides with at Disneyland?  
  
I am not a novelty. I've worked just as hard as everyone else to become a good musician, and I am not a  
  
deformed flute. 


	8. College

A/N Another (short.*sigh*) chapter, as it might be another week or so before I can put up anything else. I want to thank everyone who's reviewed. They've all been so nice ^_^ _______________________________________________  
  
Juliard Northwestern Oregon State I'm confused Richmond Albertson So many colleges I need one for music But writing too Denison Marylhurst I can't decide Wells Willamette Beloit I want to study music And writing and science And history West Point Kalamazoo I'm confused 


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